


Bloodlines and Brandy

by TheJudicator



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Body Horror, Gore, Hellhound Kylo Ren, M/M, Minor Character Death, Monster sex, Multi, Southern Gothic, Trans Hux, Transphobia, but is it sex?, but there's some full on quadruped hellhound-on-human sex here, heed the tags okay?, it's consensual but weird as all fuck, it's technically not bestiality since both are consenting sentient beings, some straight up House of Seven Gables in this shit, we just don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7636924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJudicator/pseuds/TheJudicator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Hux is a native of the Deep South who loathes his origins, and seeks to pull himself from the stifling quagmire, but his bloodlines call him back to the property that has plagued his family for centuries.</p><p>Unspoken secrets fill his inheritance, skeletons fill every closet, and a monster lurks in the shadows, tied to two bloodlines joined by fate, greed and hatred that has spanned across generations.</p><p>As Hux learns about his family’s past that has now become his burden, he discovers there is more than just having to be the curator of property that the locals shun with hushed whispers, that he has inherited more than an estate- he also has a terrible and loathsome horror tied to his very blood.</p><p>When curious young locals come calling, and Hux’s past tormentors come out of the woodwork to simper and scrabble for a piece of the newly rich, the body count begins to rise, the smell of blood in the old buildings is getting harder to hide, and Hux realises that he will need to find a better way to pacify the hulking shadow that perches on his roof every night before his hometown’s tiny population is completely decimated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving Back, and Moving In

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is uncomfortable with smut, or with the type of smut mentioned in the tags, or simply would like to see aesthetics, inspiration and various sneak peeks and drabbles and brainstorming for this fic, feel free to follow the blog here, where I will be posting all the above, as well as each chapter without smut, and with appropriately horrifying fade to black transitions :D
> 
> http://bloodlinesandbrandy.tumblr.com/

Silverhill was a quiet town, quaint, and small, boasting a population under eight hundred people, the main street barely stretching over six blocks. “Blink and you’ll miss it,” was an understatement- not only was the town small, at only a little over a square mile in total size, but the main stretch of road that wasn’t occupied by old fashioned buildings was shaded by thick overgrowths of ancient oak trees. Trees that had seen too much, and were weighed down by the centuries, their branches dipping low to the ground, only clearing the road after long years- nearly half a century of adapting to traffic.

Those trees had seen everything. The rise and fall of plantations that crumbled and washed away under the wrath of hurricanes and human beings refusing to be owned as secondary property, the battles of the Civil War, cholera outbreaks, the last major epidemics of yellow fever. Their roots curled around mass graves, hiding them from the modern era, keeping the horrors of the past buried deep in the earth, drawing their ancient strength from the dead.

It was hard not to get lost in one’s observation of the hulking verdant behemoths- after all, if one was ignorant of what those knowing branches were heavy with, didn’t pry at what lay buried beneath their gnarled roots, they were a haven. An old, reassuring haven from the blistering sun- those branches were so thick with moss, leaves and miniature ecosystems contained in the network of bark and leaf, that the shade provided was at least ten degrees cooler than the sunlight outside their reach. One could easily mistake these silent eldritch wardens for gentle, peaceful guardians, taking relief and comfort from the Southern heat in their shadows.

Those shadows, the outreaching branches, they engulfed and distracted the eye and mind from the fact that Silverhill seemed to be frozen in time. The buildings still clung to their origins defiantly, the architecture and fading façades standing testament to the passage of time. The old schoolhouse, an artefact from the late 1800’s, was constantly touched up to hide wear and tear, now bursting with history, used as a library, and still providing knowledge to a much wider age group. The old pharmacy, once an apothecary, still sported an old exterior from the early 1900’s, made to cover the former appearance of an archaic practise.

The city held secrets from those who didn’t know how to look, who only saw with the eyes of entranced tourists, or travellers simply passing through. Those who were jaded, experienced, and knew what they were looking for, didn’t see the wonder, the antiquated charm, or the novel attraction of stepping into the past. They saw the shadows, they tread carefully, lightly around the buried secrets, kept their eyes down and their mouths shut.

It was the only way to keep those secrets from ruining your life, after all- these secrets tended to have sharp teeth in wide, grinning mouths eager to bite.

It was a mindset that Sebastian Hux was keeping as he drove down Highway 104 under the dark cool shade of the canopy of oak branches. Sunglasses kept the bright Southern sun out of his grey-green eyes, and a layer of sunblock kept the rays from giving his pale freckled skin a sunburn and another layer of freckles. The AC whirred, kicking cool dry air through the vents and filling the Rolls Royce with the scent of sandlewood and leather that only enhanced the smell of fairly-new, but well-cared-for car and its leather interior. The cold air was a delightfully stark contrast to the sweltering, humid air that practically pressed against the matte black paint of the sleek Phantom.

In the back seat, his essentials were in boxes, his uniform bags hanging from the clothes hooks, his suitcases in the trunk. His jacket was carefully laid over the back of the front seat, the sleeves of his shirt rolled neatly to his elbows. Schubert filtered through the speakers at a low volume, and Hux hummed softly along with the well known and loved melody, fingers drumming over the steering wheel. His eyes were on the road, his GPS patiently ticking down the miles until his next turn. He didn’t need the GPS- he still knew the backroads of the lower Baldwin County micropolitan like the lines in his palms, despite his attempts in the past ten years to forget everything about the rural area. Despite his attempts, it seemed the South wasn’t going to let him go without a fight, dragging him back in as slowly and surely as the thick black mud of a bog.

Schubert faded as the shrill, no-nonsense beep of his phone sounded over the speakers. Tapping a button on the steering wheel, Hux answered the phone call as he flicked his blinker to turn left onto Highway Nine.

“Hux,” he said simply.

“Hux, are you still driving? I’d hoped not to catch you while you were still on the interstate,” said Dopheld Mitaka over the speakers.

“Just turned onto Highway Nine,” Hux replied, turning as his GPS cheerfully prompted him, despite having known for ten minutes it was coming.

“Oh! I thought you’d still be on I-10 at this point!” Mitaka sounded surprised. “I’m still on Thirty-Two, about to cross over the Fish River bridge.”

“Don’t rush on my account, since you’re almost there” Hux said smoothly, letting the large black car hug the sweeping curve of Highway Nine. “I just didn’t want to be unpacking when the sun went down. Is the moving crew en route?”

“The first truck already moved in your furniture, as requested. The second truck with the boxes will be here in the morning. Millicent is at the boarder on Highway 48 as requested, until you are moved in and have the stables prepared for her,” Mitaka replied, and Hux could hear the sound of tires bumping over the bridge. He’d be at the dairy about the same time as Hux, if he kept up his current speed.

“Thank you, Dopheld. You’ve been indispensable during this whole mess,” Hux said, his tone warming- especially at the mention of his beloved Tennessee Walker. The mare was a loving, patient, but quirky horse with a mind of her own, and Hux adored her. He couldn’t wait to have her back. Mitaka gave a small laugh on the other end.

“Nothing to thank me for, this is my job, and it certainly broke the monotony of dealing with people squabbling over the inconsequential ‘estates’ old baby boomer relatives they hated until they passed away,” he quipped, and Hux smiled.

“Glad I could give you something interesting to do.”

“Don’t get me wrong, work is work, but it’s not every day that someone gets to handle something like the Woodhaven Dairy. Tongues are wagging, Hux, so be prepared for questions- the prodigal Hux has returned, and a new man, at that. When there’s less than twenty thousand people in two neighbouring towns, the rumour mill runs quicker than wildfire.”

“As I know all too well,” Hux replied smoothly. It was one of the reasons he’d left Alabama and the razor sharp edge of passive aggression known as Southern Hospitality, insults coated with “bless your heart,” condescension disguised with “Honey, Darling,” or “Sweetie.”

The turn was coming. Hux turned off the GPS- hearing it announce “You have arrived” in a chipper tone was somehow… damning. Finalising.

“Turning in now,” he said. “I will see you shortly.”

“See you in a bit,” Mitaka replied, hanging up, leaving Hux alone in the car with Schubert playing softly once more.

He took a deep breath and eased the black car into the driveway, sliding through the thick bushes that lined either side of the gravel pathway. Honeysuckle. Fat bumblebees drifted lazily between the blossoms, buzzing contentedly, covered in pollen. A pair of mockingbirds scuffled in mid-flight, their raucous cries sounding through the air. Somewhere in the distance, a crow laughed in a fit of Schadenfreude as the smaller birds grappled. A squirrel paused, acorns stuffed in its cheeks as it watched the car roll by.

Once the tires crossed the threshold of the property, passing through the gate, the honeysuckle blossoms were neglected, and fewer. No squirrels darted across the driveway. The only sounds of birds was that of those outside the fence. The trees were still, devoid of animal life. Hux glanced at his in-dash thermometer. It slowly ticked down- 102… 100… 98… 96… 92… 90…. and it held. More than ten degrees cooler inside the fence- and Hux was still in full sunlight.

The Rolls came to a stop by the house in a patch of shade, and Hux put the gear into park. He turned the car off, leaving it in accessory, and watched as the thermometer dropped another ten degrees, and held steady at 80 degrees. Outside the fence, in the sun, Alabama’s late summer sun shone and warmed the world to 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Inside, the world was more than twenty degrees colder, as though the sun could only permeate so much before the land protested.

The house was the same as he remembered. Small, quaint, farmhouse, with the faded blue siding so pale it was nearly white, aged navy blue shutters, and the grey tiled roof hidden under thick branches of the oak tree that loomed over the house. The screened front porch held one sign of life- a singular, particularly determined banana spider in a half made web strung between the door and eaves. Hux stared at it, at the long legs and swollen yellow abdomen contrasting against the pale blue-white.

Even as he watched, looking intently at the arachnid, he saw no movement. No subtle twitch of legs as it tested its web for prey, no shifting on threads of silk. It became apparent to Hux that the spider was dead- not long, but no longer alive, and would hang there until its web decayed and dropped the corpse to the ground, or until Hux himself cleared the web from the eaves.

He wanted to get out, to reacquaint himself with the property his grandfather had lived on, where he’d visited as a child, but his legs wouldn’t move. Getting out, taking a step alone onto the grounds, taking it in, it was all an act of damnation. An acceptance, a resignation to his fate, his entrapment.

He glanced at the old slaughterhouse, chills running down his spine as eyes locked with the shadows of the long neglected building. Once, cows had been taken into it for slaughter, when they were unable to produce any more milk, sold to the local butcher. Neighbouring farms- now private residential properties and hunting grounds- had brought their own beef cows for slaughter as well, the farms collaborating and working together.

Now, the building was silent, nearly in ruins. Windows were long gone, metal rusted, stone weathering. Hux had never been inside, but he knew it went at least one level into the ground, if not two- cold storage for the purpose of ageing freshly slaughtered meat. A place of death, left to rot to the merciless tide of time- a fate worse in the South as humidity and heat were a harsher force of nature than time on its own.

Hux finally opened the door to the Rolls, and got out of the car. His first steps, his homecoming, the unsteady stride he’d take out of his vehicle- they had to be done alone. He glanced up as the shade covering him darkened, and his red brows furrowed. Storm clouds had built behind the line of trees, and were now encroaching. Not unusual for this time of year, certainly, and the storm would be a welcome relief from the heat.

His nostrils flared as the first gust from the approaching storm washed over him, carrying the scent of summer heat, the sweet cloy of honeysuckle, hot asphalt, and ozone. Memories washed over him of his grandmother, sitting in the porch swing with a glass pitcher of tea brewing on the table in the sun, their old rottweiler snoozing on the sunfaded rug, snorting in his sleep as he dreamed. His grandmother always knew when the storm would hit, and she’d pull everyone and everything inside moments before the rain started to fall. She said the touch of ozone in the air made her tea perfect.

A soft sound caught Hux’s attention, and he turned his head towards it- back towards the slaughterhouse. The yawning black looked empty, but Hux knew something was lurking just inside, watching him. He could feel eyes on him, staring, peering- the curious gaze of something intelligent, but feral.

_You stay out of that building when you go visit, Sebastian._

_Why, Papa?_

_There’s something wrong about it. Something lives in that old slaughterhouse, and you’d best stay out of it, you hear me?_

_Yes, Papa_.

The breeze picked up, rustling Hux’s hair as he continued staring into the pitch black. The sound he’d heard was the grating of something over stone. His gaze was unwavering, and he could sense, could feel something staring back at him. The shadows intensified as the clouds came closer, picking up speed as the winds kicked up- but a flash of lightning illuminated the area.

Revealing a tall shadowy figure standing in the slaughterhouse.

Taller than Hux, possibly six foot seven, maybe taller. Hux couldn’t tell from this distance. It was distinctly male, humanoid, but the way it stood, the way it held itself, the way its form seemed unstable, incorporeal…. It wasn’t human.

Thunder boomed, and the sound of tires on gravel had Hux startling as headlights crossed the entryway to the malevolent darkness where a horror lurked, watching and waiting. A champagne coloured Lexus stopped a respectful distance from the Rolls Royce, and Dopheld Mitaka got out. Hux didn’t turn to look at him, refusing to look away from the gaze that held him.

“That is a nice car,” Mitaka commented appreciatively, eyeing the sleek black car. He glanced over at Hux, then followed his gaze, frowning.

“Something in there?”

Hux finally tore his eyes away and turned to face Mitaka, who was wearing khakis and an aqua polo, sunglasses perched on top of his head, a leather briefcase clutched in his hand.

“No. Nothing at all,” Hux said softly. “You have the keys?”

Mitaka nodded, pulling them out and handing them to Hux.

“Technically, I shouldn’t hand them over to you until you sign the paperwork, but I figure it’d be nice to unlock the door yourself, right?”

Hux wordlessly turned and headed to the side door, avoiding the dead spider that now spun limply in the quickening breeze. It would be gone before nightfall. He slid the key into the lock, and with a neat snick, the deadbolt gave, and for the first time in twenty years, Sebastian Hux stepped into the lavender and cream kitchen.

The tile had been redone, a plain white linoleum, but the lavender and cream curtains, the wallpaper with the wisteria trim, the white marble countertops and cream painted cabinetry, it was all the same as he remembered. His loafers clicked on the smooth floor, carrying him to the table. Mitaka set his briefcase down, but didn’t open it.

“We can sign it after you get your bearings. I imagine you’d like to see if the furniture has been arranged to your liking?” He suggested.

Hux rummaged in his pocket and produced a pack of Djarums and a lighter. He nodded, sticking one in his mouth and lighting it as he strode off to examine the house. Normally, he wouldn’t smoke in the house, and he had no intentions of making a habit of it, but anything to get the smell of stale air and stagnation out of the room.

He moved from room to room, eyeing the furniture, trailing clove and vanilla smoke behind him. His black leather couch set, the lounge chair, the black coffee table were unscathed. His study- the desk, the liquor cabinet, the rug, all made it in one piece. He went upstairs to the master bedroom and saw with relief his bed was just where he’d asked, his wardrobe in place, the mirror still flawless, the nightstand already set up.

“All in order,” he said, pleased, as he moved back to the kitchen. He still had three empty rooms, but he’d been living in a two bedroom apartment in Maryland before being dragged back down to the South. He’d find something to do with the empty rooms eventually, he supposed.

Mitaka arranged the paperwork and sat at the table.

“Let’s get to it,” Hux said matter of factly, sitting down and taking a long drag of his Djarum. “Don’t want you heading out after nightfall, unless you want to crash on the sofa.”

“I’ll pass,” Mitaka said with a chuckle. “Alright. You know the stipulations: You get nothing if you abandon the property as a primary residence. A member of your family, by blood, must always occupy the house. Otherwise, the trust funds, the bonds, the investments, the stocks, the bank accounts, the estate, they all go to the other documented beneficiaries.”

Hux nodded, pulling a fountain pen from his pocket, ready to sign.

“You also know the other fine details, you made me stay up reading every inch of fine print.”

Hux nodded again.

“My grandfather left nothing to chance. Luckily, I had no siblings, and the family requirement of blood inheriting the property means it’s mine, regardless of his disagreement with my father,” he said dryly. “Lucky me.”

“Alright. Sign where it’s marked. There’s quite a bit here. Then we’ll sign the deeds, and we’ll be done.”

* * *

Hux staggered into his room, brandy still on his lips, his dinner warm in his stomach. Exhaustion was setting in, exacerbated by a stomach full of brandy and tarragon chicken. He’d showered as his dinner baked in the oven, ate, then enjoyed a cigarette on the porch with three fingers of brandy, listening to the storm rage overhead.

Now, he had to make his bed- he’d packed his bedding in his car with his essentials, the comforter and sheets too expensive to be trusted to movers.

Stripping to his underwear, and removing his packer, Hux moved to a box and pulled out his bedding, and sloppily made his bed- he made sure the mattress liner and the fitted sheet were put on properly, but the sheets, the blanket, the duvet, he tossed onto the bed. He arranged his pillows, listening to the thunder as it cracked and roared in the skies- the only thing he’d really missed about the South- then once his bed was suitable to sleep in, he turned off the lights, and fell into the nest of blankets and pillows.

It didn’t take the exhausted man long to fall asleep, lulled by the pouring rain and roaring thunder. So tired was he, that he didn’t even stir as a heavy thump sounded through the rain on the roof above his room.

Long, wicked claws curled around the eaves, and wings spread, rain pattering over the leathery membranes. A long snout, a muzzle of bone, devoid of flesh, bent low as the massive shadow hunched to peer through the window. Empty eye sockets stared at the man sleeping on black and red blankets, his body twisted in a thick duvet as he sprawled on his stomach.

Rain dripped from bare fangs and pooled in the exposed nasal cavity, jaws creaking slightly as they parted, the skeletal face tilting. The man hadn’t been scared. He’d looked and stared, only turning away when the other human called for his attention.

The man had to die. Instinct driven by centuries of obligation, of blood magic and vengeance, of death marks written by screams as necks were broken, demanded that this man die. Claws itched to rip and tear, jaws parted further, eager to sink fangs into flesh, to drink deep of lifeblood that had driven the never ending desire to eliminate an entire bloodline.

Claws cracked open the window, long, horrifying limbs unfurling to prepare to launch weight into the man’s room- and then, hesitation.

This scent. It was the bloodline. The one of which was for killing, devouring, drinking, sating a never ending thirst, hunger, lust. Yet…. The Blood. The Blood of the Coven. It was faint, but it was there, throbbing in this fearless man’s veins, singing in arteries.

Clawed hands pushed the window closed, and carried the monster across the roof. Panic had skeletal jaws parted as the shadowy monstrosity launched from the roof and skittered, a mess of long limbs, tattered black cloth and wings as it disappeared back into the bowels of the slaughterhouse.

 _The rain, perhaps_ , it mused. _Yes_. The rain. It hid scents. Masked them.

Carefully, the monster considered, tilting its horrifying head, visage glinting wet with rain. Yes. This man must be studied. It must learn, know him. Maybe this man knew and lied, masked his scent with Blood of the Coven. Oh, if it lied… if it tried to be one of those that bound the creature…. His death would come slowly. But first, he must be studied.

The creature shuddered violently, outline becoming fluid, protean. The skeletal face cracked, groaned, shifted and receded. Wings curled around the slender frame, and emulated clothing, imitated what it knew. Claws became long pale fingers, and the spiked mane became soft, wild hair.

Glittering amber brown eyes narrowed as they studied the dark house where the target slept, unaware- or foolishly ignoring- how his death watched from the shadows. A plush mouth spread into a sharp, glittering smile.

He would know soon enough, and he would acknowledge it with a chorus of screams as he paid a blood debt centuries old with his own blood. The creature had spilled blood of his line before, but it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A Hound of Hell bound by vengeance would never be sated.


	2. Shadows Linger in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The locals are slowly getting news of the prodigal Hux returning to the area, but Hux is too busy finding threats in the shadows of his own home to socialise.

Overhead, the storm raged.

Water pinged and clanged against the tin roof, sluicing off the edges and into the gutters, which overflowed and created cascades of water as the rain spout was clogged from years of neglect and shed oak leaves. The resulting cascade hit the ground, reinforcing the hard line of pebbles and clay that years of rain improperly drained run-off had worn into the grass surrounding the house. The miniature ditch filled quickly, and added the sounds of water splashing and jostling the loose pebbles, gravel and earth. Rain pattered against the leaves of the ancient oaks that overlooked the house, branches dripping, and swaying with the wind, the occasional acorn hitting the roof with a loud plonk of reverberating metal.

The spider that had spun lifelessly in the remains of its web was long gone, blown away and smashed into the detritus of leaves and twigs, acorns and Spanish moss at the foundation of the house. Small cyclones of dead grass and other loose vegetation spun up and down the gravel driveway as the wind howled.

In his bed, lulled deeper into sleep by the rioting storm, Hux nestled deeper into the thick warm duvet, sliding his bare legs over the soft sheets with a sigh. He rolled onto his side, curled into a foetal position, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his lids as he dreamed.

“ _You stand accused of treason against the Crown, Widow Benson. How do you plead?”_

“ _Accuse me of whatever you like, we all know that even if God himself came down to proclaim my innocence, you’d find something else to hang me with so you might seize the land you covet so sinfully, Judge Hux!”_

_The middle aged woman’s mouth curled in a sardonic smile, her dried lips cracking and bleeding as they split, the result of dehydration from being withheld water in hopes of having her confess the crime of sending messages to Continental soldiers about ship movements in Mobile Bay._

“ _If you plead guilty, your life will be spared, Mary,” coaxed one of the older councilmen. “Think of your daughters up in Boston!”_

_A dry cackle from the abused woman’s bloody mouth, her broken teeth now stained red like a predator’s bloody maw as it gaped open, and the council all shifted uncomfortably on the oak benches. The wood creaked under them in protest, and echoed about the rafters of the town hall._

“ _My daughters are spared, that’s enough for me,” she hissed around her broken teeth, hacking a blob of blood and phlegm to the floor. One of the guards hit the back of her head with the butt of his firearm, and her wan face, already pale from months of being jailed, drained further of colour as she swayed on her feet, threatening to swoon from the blow._

“ _Will you not plead, then?” Judge Brendol Hux pressed. “If you admit to your transgressions, or name your cohorts, we can lessen your sentence, or even a pardon. If not, we have no choice but to hang you, Mary.”_

_Her blood-shot eyes stared at him with a cold fury that had the elders going silent._

“ _I will never admit to anything I did not do,” she said with glacial calm. “Your hypocrisy is staggering, and your motives are laid bare, Judge. If I confess, I forfeit my land and my name laid low in the town. If I do not, I hang, and die, and still my land will be forfeit, my name besmirched. You will get my land, regardless of what I do, it’s what you want, what you planned on when you put that forgery in my ledgers.”_

_The widow raised her chin defiantly, her spine straightening with pride, and her swollen, bruised jaw set firmly._

“ _You can take my land, Judge Hux, and I hope it devours you,” she cried angrily. “Take it, and choke on it. You’ll not have me confess to lies and slander! I will die with my name intact, and all will know you killed a founder of this town for no reason other than greed!”_

_Her eyes were focused on the Judge with the intensity of a hawk’s, and with the ancient, all-knowing look of a raven under her thick dark eyebrows._

“ _God damns all liars, Judge, but what does he do those liars who also covet, and kill?”_

“ _Blasphemous, traitorous whore!” An elder roared, and the crowd rang out their agreement with a cacophony of bellows and cries- and no one noticed how the thick-set judge had gone pale beneath his red beard._

“ _Take her to the gallows!” Hux screamed, spittle flying from his mouth as the raucous noise grew to a fever pitch._

_Mary was calm, silent as the constables took hold of her shoulders and led her out of the courthouse. She kept her head high as they pushed her through the street, barefoot and filthy, her clothes and hair snarled and tattered, bruises and blood on her skin. She stared into nothing as hisses, swears and globs of spit flew at her from all sides._

_Neighbours who had once come to her apothecary for medicine. Women who had thanked her for her skills as a midwife and a healer that had nursed their children back to health. Men who had respected her talents with livestock and the balms that eased aches and pains after long days of work. Even children, who had once flocked to her apothecary for sweets made from herbs, or honeyed pecans._

_She was shoved roughly up the steps of the gallows, and she stumbled, splinters from the weathered wood digging into the soles of her feet. As she fell, trying to catch herself with bound wrists, a particularly large gouge in the wood ripped open the palms of her hands. She was rudely dragged back to her feet, and she left bloody handprints on the steps._

_The crowd jeered and roared as the hangman took the rope in his hands. Hux came beside her and waved to the crowd._

“ _The accused, Widow Mary Benson, is hereby found guilty of treason, and will die by hanging,” he announced, the proclamation met with roars and bellows. Mary said nothing, digging nails into her bleeding palms. Hux leaned close to her ear as the hangman prepared the noose._

“ _You should have taken up my offer when I proposed marriage, Mary,” he whispered. “It was more than you deserved, being welcomed into the Village, such as you are, a former indentured servant, even if you married well into the Village when William Benson took you as a wife. I protected you once, you know. There were whispers of you being a witch, and I buried the accusations.”_

_Still, she said nothing. Her eyes were following the motions of the rope as it was made into her death. Blood dripped between her fingers and onto the gallows._

“ _I could offer you one last chance,” Hux murmured. “One last proposal, to save your life.”_

“ _I wish to say my last words,” Mary said suddenly, her voice ringing over the crowd._

_The silence that slowly settled over the square was far more deafening that the chaos that had preceded it._

“ _I am no traitor,” she called. “I am a woman, and in this world, in this age, that means I have little say over what happens to me when men decide my fate. No jury in the world could have saved me this day.”_

_Hux balled his fists, but she continued._

“ _What is done, is done, and I go to my death with no regrets. But know this.”_

_She held up her bound wrists, spreading fingers wide, and blood dribbled and dripped from her raw, gouged hands- she’d made the cuts worse with her own fingernails. The splash of crimson was stark against the stained greys of her simple shift._

“ _Whosoever claims my land will suffer. Whoever moves into my home will know true terror. They that place their family name on my deed dooms their entire bloodline to misery, discord and torment in the jaws of Hell itself. They will each fall, one by one, at the cruelty of the monster they themselves brought upon themselves, until the last living of their line is dead.”_

_Her eyes flashed, and a woman screamed in the crowed in a fit of hysterics as a clap of thunder boomed in the distance from an approaching summer storm._

“ _Bengesko Zhukel, ashunel ma ai lel primuta ma. Porravel wuni te astarel mo phuv. Lovil len tele. Del len na filtari. Sikavel na mila! Primuta ma!” She screamed as her blood began running more freely from her palms, the hangman struggling to get the noose around her neck as Hux bellowed “STOP HER!” frantically._

_She was pushed from the ledge, and there was a snap as her neck broke. Blood continued to drip from her hands, and the crowd fell silent._

_Overhead, the clouds were approaching fast, covering the sky, and the air dropped drastically in temperature as the storm slunk over the Village. The only sound was the roar of thunder, and the creaking of the rope as Mary’s body swung, lifeless._

_Her blood continued to flow._

Hux sat up abruptly, his breath coming in short gasps, and he looked around the room wildly, eyes wide. The night around him still roared and spattered rain upon his house, the dark so thick, he might have never opened his eyes, for all he could see.

He sat there for a while, heart pounding in his ears as he strained to hear anything above the sound of his own rapid pulse and the storm outside, before he asked out loud,

“What are you listening for?”

His mind raced to the shadow he’d seen in the slaughterhouse before coming inside with Dopheld, the impossibly tall shadow that had been humanoid, but not. His father’s words came to him again.

_You stay out of that building... something wrong about it. Something lives in that old slaughterhouse, and you’d best stay out of it, you hear me?_

Another acorn hit the roof above his room, and Hux nearly jumped out of skin- he nearly would have fallen off the bed, where it not for the nest he’d made of his duvet.

Laughing sharply and almost a little hysterically, he fumbled for his nightstand, and the bottle of sleeping meds. He clumsily opened the bottle and tipped back what he estimated to be 30mL before flopping back into the pillows. He stared at the ceiling- what else could he be looking at in this pitch black?- and felt the weight of the darkness on his chest, his stomach, perched on his limbs, even weighing on his eyeballs.

“What has you so spooked?” he asked himself.

Not the dream, surely not. He knew the story behind the property, that long ago, some witch had cursed it when his forefathers had purchased it- though some said he’d killed her for it by framing her for betraying the British, as the area had been under the Empire’s control at the time. Hux had gone over the records, and he’d had a dream about it. That was all.

“Curses. Monsters. Ridiculous,” he snorted. “All you saw was a trick of light exacerbated by fatigue, stress and heat. Nothing more.”

He satisfied himself with this for a while and felt his eyelids grow heavy as the diphenhydramine finally started to kick in. He went back to sleep, and this time, he did not dream.

He never saw the shadow prowling around his car, never heard the sound of something _slithering_ under the door and into the house. He was dead to the world as the dark shape moved through each room, crept over the floors and skittered silently up the stairs before sitting at the foot of his bed, melding into the darkness.

Hux slept heavily through the storm as the shadow stared at him. The amorphous darkness was still and silent, and didn’t budge until the first light of dawn crept over the horizon and began to glitter through the soaked branches of the oak trees. It was gone, melting into the shadows of the slaughterhouse before the first rays of light touched the old building’s facade.

That morning, Hux saw the odd muddy marks at the door as he stepped onto the porch for a morning cigarette, but decided it was just some leaking from the neglected gutters, and refused to let himself think on it a moment longer. As he made breakfast, he thought of unpacking, of hiring help to repair and renovate the stables, of the day he’d be able to bring his beloved horse home.

First things, first, he decided, looking at the miniature moat that had resulted from the clogged gutters overflowing, was to go to the hardware store and get some tools. He had some work he needed to do on this old house- as well as the old guest house- before he could consider bringing Millicent home.

His thoughts were mildly thrown off their track, however, as he went to the car, and saw the giant paw prints that circled his car in the already drying mud. He looked at them, his brain not quite registering what he was seeing. Surely he wasn’t seeing the tracks in perspective.

He knelt down, mindful of his black slacks in the dirt, and held his hand just above each print, his cigarette dangling from his mouth as he compared it against the track in the wet dirt. His mouth tightened around the Djarum, lips going pale. His brow furrowed, and he felt a sweat break out over his forehead as he took it in.

The main pad of each paw alone was as big as his hand with his pale, trembling fingers extended.

 

* * *

 

Storms in Alabama rarely bring relief, save for during their short furious lifespans. The next morning was bright and humid, with only puddles shining on the ground and drops glittering on tree branches as evidence that a storm had happened. The scent of wet earth and summer flowers filled the hot, humid air, the stubborn Southern ground refusing to relinquish the heat of the summer, even after a torrential rain.

The golden sunlight spilled through the window of the small apartment, carrying the scent of a post-storm morning with it through the pane left cracked open the night before. It bathed the occupants of an odd sleeping arrangement, causing tanned and dark sable skin to glow in the warm light.

Finn grumbled as the sunlight finally pierced through his sleep, and with an annoyed sound, rolled over onto his stomach. His bed partner made a sound of protest and shifted to regain the comfort of Finn’s back as a pillow, arm draping over his waist.

Their bed was an odd arrangement, a mismatched pair of mattresses, one queen sized, one full, pushed together to create a larger sleeping space, and shoved into the corner of the room. It was covered in multiple pillows, at least three blankets, a well worn ragdoll, and at the foot of the bed in his own blanket, a bright orange and white Pomeranian snoozed happily.

Finn was sprawled on his stomach, blankets kicked off hours earlier, arms under his pillow. Poe Dameron was draped over him, cheek resting against his back and legs tangled in his boyfriend's, his blanket around his knees. Both men snored softly in their own ways, Finn’s a quiet snorting breath rather than a snore, whereas Poe snored loudly, and drooled on Finn’s shirt- which was actually Poe’s shirt.

Rey leaned against the doorframe, chewing on a bagel as she watched the domestic scene with a smile. She was already dressed for work, a stained white crop top showing off lean tanned abs, khaki coveralls undone where they hung at her waist, and black combat boots still untied. Her black hair glistened, pulled up into a loose bun at the back of her head, and her amber eyes glittered as she looked at her boyfriends.

Poe was a long time helicopter flier for the local hospital’s EMT team- Thomas Hospital was one of the largest and most renowned hospitals in the area, and Poe flew patients between it and other larger facilities in the most urgent cases. Despite the stressful job, Poe was constantly easy going and wore a smooth smile like a second skin.

Finn was an Army veteran who had been discharged after a few years and one tour in Iraq- seeing his platoon getting blown up by IED’s had left him traumatised, and he was discharged with PTSD. He’d taken a job at the hospital, working as a janitor when he met Poe on a lunch break at the cafeteria. The two had hit it off, and Poe had seen a spark in him, a drive to help others, and had pulled him into the EMT squad for training and certification. A year later, Finn flew with Poe, handling radio comms and doing heavy lifting.

Despite his PTSD, Finn was a charming and good hearted man, his smile as warm and big as his heart. His eyes always shone with hope and bright expectations, and his humour was a good mix of snarky and light. Poe brought his humour and his warmth out when they were together, and Poe secretly admitted to Rey that he had the feeling he may have saved Finn from himself.

As for Rey, she was lucky to have them both. She didn’t know her parents, only the leapfrog game of leaping from foster home to foster home, hating every minute of it. She’d spent her last years of high school taking trade classes- mainly shop, mechanics and engineering- then dropped out once she turned eighteen, and was no longer in the foster care system. Armed with just her raw knowledge of cars, she’d turned up on the doorstep of a local combination junk-yard-and-car-mechanic, and asked for a job. The mechanic had given her a dubious eye, but when he gave her a clunker to work on, and she made it run, he gave her a job on the spot.

The young woman was a savant with cars- she could make a long dead clunker come back to life, coax dying cars away from the edge, and make decent cars purr like kittens. Her own car was a battered old 5.0 litre Mustang that she’d worked on and made into a fierce- albeit loud and ugly looking- machine.

She’d known Poe’s face from around town, but never had the chance to talk to him until he came to the shop to get a frayed belt on his alternator replaced, with Finn in tow. As Rey had been buried inside the engine of Poe’s black, orange striped Camaro, they’d exchanged small talk, and had gotten along well. Rey had especially taken a liking to Finn, and they arranged to have dinner together.

That was a year ago, Rey mused, shoving the last of her bagel in her mouth as she moved to the foot of the bed, her news bubbling in her chest. Now the three of them were inseparable, and their living arrangement couldn’t have been more agreeable.

Now, she pounced.

“Hey!” Rey cried, bouncing onto the bed, dislodging the fluffy Pomeranian- Bartholomew Bartimus the VIIIth, aka BB8- who barked indignantly and strode off into the living room to hop onto the couch to continue his sleep. Finn grunted, sitting up, and Poe simply flopped onto his back, protesting with a groan as he was dislodged from Finn’s back.

“Rey, what is it?” Finn groused, rubbing sleep from his eyes and stretching, his back popping.

Rey planted a kiss on his dark-skinned forehead by means of a good morning before leaning down and giving Poe a noisy kiss on his nose and deftly avoiding the pilot’s clumsily swatting hand.

“The Woodhaven Dairy is let out! The Hux family came back!” She said excitedly. Finn snorted and flumped back into the pillows gracelessly.

“That’s all?” Poe grumbled. “C’mon, Rey, that’s nothing to wake up a pair of swing shift EMT’s for!”

“You went to school with this Hux, if the age is correct!” Rey continued. “Maybe you know them? Maybe…. You could ask them if they wouldn’t mind if I looked at the old buildings?”

“I remember the Hux’s, and I didn’t get along with any of em, Rey,” Poe replied, muffled as he buried his face in Finn’s chest. “The one Hux in my class was Elizabeth Hux, and she was…. Well, she wasn’t a happy person, and she kept to herself. It was considered good for her when she left Alabama, really.”

Rey looked crestfallen, and sighed, but didn’t press the issue.

“Okay. I won’t ask you to bug them, then,” she said.

“I don’t know why you want to look at the place so badly, Rey,” Finn said between two jaw cracking yawns, his toes curling as he stretched, an arm around Poe’s shoulders. “It’s just an old defunct dairy.”

“An old, defunct, _haunted_ dairy,” Rey corrected.

“If you believe local tales,” Poe countered.

“Then what about the horses?” Rey asked stubbornly.

“Coyotes,” Poe retorted, but his reply was half-coherent. Already, he was slipping back into sleep, lulled by the warmth of Finn’s chest under his cheek.

Rey didn’t argue that coyotes didn’t slaughter domesticated livestock the way those horses had been found those odd years ago, but Poe’s breathing was coming evenly and slow now, and she didn’t want to wake him again. She placed a kiss on his cheek before getting off the bed, Finn watching her with sleep-heavy eyes.

“Why is it important, Rey?” He asked drowsily. She shrugged, coming to his side of the bed and pressing a long, lingering kiss to his mouth. His free hand ran over the back of her neck, pulling her close.

“Just… something makes me feel like I need to look. I can’t explain it,” she said when they finally broke their kiss. “Guess I’ll never know.”

Finn gave her a lazy smile.

“You’re gonna be late for work.”

“Not if I gun it,” Rey said with a wry smile, and blowing him a kiss, she darted from the room, leaping over BB8 as the small dog came padding back into the room for the comfort of his end of the bed.

Moments later, the orange and white dog flattened his ears in annoyance as the roar of the old Mustang boomed beside the cracked window. Finn and Poe didn’t even flinch, already deep asleep again as Rey tore off down Highway 98 to work.

* * *

 

Cold air blasted from the vents of the car as Hux drove down Highway 98, the interior of the car cast in a green shadow from the sunlight filtering through various leaves of oak and pecan trees. Hux’s face was passive behind his sunglasses, the silence of the car only broken by the thrum of the engine and the rush of air conditioning, with the occasional bump of tires over a pothole or bump in the road caused by a particularly stubborn tree root under the pavement.

He was withdrawn, dwelling on the tracks that had surrounded his car. He’d tried convincing himself he’d mistaken, that surely the tracks were not as big as he’d thought. The dirt he’d wiped from his hand after placing it _inside_ the main pad of the paw alone told him otherwise.

What sort of animal would have made such large tracks? They were paws, for sure, but enormous, and with five toes instead of the requisite four. They also boasted deep gouges that indicated very long claws, and the prints were deep, suggesting the animal was very large in size, not just large of foot.

 _Not a wolf. There are no wolves in Baldwin County, not since the 1920’s. There are only coyotes, and they are less than half the size those paws would indicate the animal to be. Indeed, I know even wolves would not have such large paws. Even the largest of dogs would not have paws that size,_ Hux thought, his placid expression giving way to a frown.

He’d intended to start work on the stables- he wanted Millicent home and settled- but now, he felt she wouldn’t be safe if such a creature was roaming his property. So instead of seeking out help from Lakewood Stables or Oak Hollow Farm to get supplies and extra hands, he was now heading to the Weeks Bay Reserve to ask about local predators. From there, he’d see what was loose on his land, if it could be caught, and how to go about getting rid of it. If nothing else, he could call Animal Control if it turned out it was someone’s escaped pet.

_But is it? You said yourself that even the largest of dogs couldn’t have paws that size. Nothing natural leaves tracks that big._

Nothing natural.

“Stop it,” Hux said aloud to himself. “Curses, monsters, you’re jumping at shadows, clutching rosaries and tossing salt over your shoulder and there’s a logical reason for this.”

His mind flashed back yet again to the shadow in the slaughterhouse.

“ _You stay out of that building... something wrong about it. Something lives in that old slaughterhouse, and you’d best stay out of it, you hear me?”_

Hux ground his teeth in a squeal of enamel on enamel, and turned into the empty parking lot of an old barn that had, in his lifetime, been a country dance club, a rock bar, a square dancing joint, and was now closed indefinitely. Taking care in the white gravel, he turned around and guided the black car back onto 98, heading back into town, towards Fairhope.

It wasn’t natural. He couldn’t deny it. He’d been going over the possibilities, every explanation that might be feasible. Nothing could wave away the fact that something big as a horse- or bigger- with five toed paws, tipped in very long claws, had slunk around his car during the night.

He followed 98 until it branched into its highway and scenic routes, the latter of which he took, heading west before the road curved northward. He was going down-town, to visit the one person everyone knew- and the one person who knew everything and everyone, and everything about the history of Southern Baldwin County.

It was time to see Maz Kanata.


End file.
